


Avid Reader

by Daegaer



Series: For Art's Sake [34]
Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: 1920s, AU, Alternate Universe - Historical, Art, Artists, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-08-05 21:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16375415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer





	Avid Reader

At last, I tell myself, my dabbling in paintings for what can at best be called private specialty collectors has brought me benefit of which I can be proud. Ever since Schuldig told me that one of Williamson's friends, a Mr Fredricks, who has commissioned the work, is pleased to accept anything I wish to paint, as long as it is suitable to hang in a library and shows young people reading. The news that I have an actual commission that I can tell other people about, that will be seen and may lead to more work, is so wonderful that I find I have spent money I can ill-afford in celebration even before seeing a penny of my fee. Schuldig casts his eyes to heaven at my behaviour, although he does not, I see, refuse lunch at my expense.

"You should have a bit more sense," he says, not lifting his eyes from the menu. "You'll have spent the fee before you get it."

"It's only money," I say, feeling very pleased with myself.

"Easy to say if you've always had plenty of it."

"Don't be so bourgeois."

He gives me a straight, oddly expressionless look, then heaves a sigh, theatrically exasperated. "What would you do without me?" he says. "You've got no sense."

He smiles angelically at the waiter, and orders the dover sole, with lamb to follow, and a bottle of excellent wine.

"What was that about saving money?" I smile, after I have ordered.

"Let's not be _bourgeois_ ," he says, a touch sharply. He looks around the restaurant in approval. "This place is expensive – you shouldn't bring me here too often, or I'll expect it all the time."

"I'd like to be able to bring you here frequently."

He smiles down at his place; a small, pleased expression. Then he takes a piece of paper from his pocket and flattens it out, revealing a sketch of a horse and cart.

"Why the hell can't I get the legs right?" he says.

I purse my lips, examining the sketch. He is distracting me, but I'm happy to be distracted by the evidence that he has been practicing.

"I think this horse has been on some sort of reducing diet," I say. "The legs are too thin, they wouldn't be able to support the body. The neck needs to be thicker too, especially as this is a carthorse. This _is_ a carthorse, isn't it? Not a racehorse that somehow just happens to be pulling a cart?"

"Son of a bitch," Schuldig mutters, thankfully under his breath. "You're right. Her legs did look spindly, though."

"Ah, you know the lady," I say teasingly. "She needs to be a bit better built in your drawing – her legs would only look thin because she's a big girl all over."

It's very good to see Schuldig listening to my advice, to have him pay attention as I sketch lightly over his lines, showing how the horse's legs should look. All the time until our food arrives is taken up with discussing the sketch, and the topic of my spending does not arise again.

When we return to my rooms he swoops on my current sketchbook, as eager as ever to see what I am making of him. He skims through the rough drawings of him, lounging against faintly-sketched trees or castle walls, book in hand, or sitting on overly romantic weed-strewn rocks, engrossed in an antique scroll. He pauses and pages back, peering closer, a grin widening upon his face.

"Crawford, what do you have me reading in this?"

"A book?" I say, innocently. "Something educational?"

He sniggers, and I know he has in fact seen the almost obscured, although carefully lettered, author's name upon the volume his pencilled form is reading.

"Have you actually _read_ de Sade? He's pretty fucking boring, though maybe I just didn't get to the good bits."

"Maybe not," I say loftily, sure he's trying to shock me. I certainly haven't read anything by the infamous Marquis, nor do I wish to. "I wouldn't want you to think I'd paint you with some sort of bourgeois reading material."

He laughs at me and tosses the book back.

"I'll forgive you, this once. Turn me into a nice boy, if you can."

"Art can work miracles," I tell him, pointing him back to his position, and sitting down to sketch again.

It can. It has brought me freedom, and given me his company.

It has given me joy.


End file.
